


We May Fall In Love Every Time We Open Up Our Eyes

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [17]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Breakfast, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, soft, the author is a sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 02:03:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20940476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: Their mornings had fallen into the most domestic of routines. Aziraphale would wake first (just because he didn’t mind sleeping didn’t mean he was any good at it), just as the sun began to peer around the clouds. He’d stay in bed, propped up on pillows with a book in one hand and the other carding through Crowley’s hair. The sunlight always cut just the right path so that it passed across Aziraphale’s page, but never hit the sleeping demon’s face.





	We May Fall In Love Every Time We Open Up Our Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> this is a continuation of yesterday's prompt and i really like it a lot so please enjoy

Sleeping, Aziraphale decided, wasn’t quite as terrible as he’d once assumed.

The bed was really rather comfortable, and there was something to say about how peaceful the world was in the early morning, when the sky first began to glow a watercolour wash of pink and purple and palest blue.

And really, how could it be so awful, when it led to this? When it led to Crowley, coiled around Aziraphale like the serpent he was, his face, for once, free of creases or worry lines?

Sleeping, Aziraphale decided, was quite nice, so long as he had Crowley sleeping beside him.

Their mornings had fallen into the most domestic of routines. Aziraphale would wake first (just because he didn’t  _ mind  _ sleeping didn’t mean he was any good at it), just as the sun began to peer around the clouds. He’d stay in bed, propped up on pillows with a book in one hand and the other carding through Crowley’s hair. The sunlight always cut  _ just _ the right path so that it passed across Aziraphale’s page, but never hit the sleeping demon’s face.

Eventually, Crowley would begin to wake, twisting and stretching and popping more vertebrae than technically existed in a human spine. He’d press his face into Aziraphale’s stomach to block out the light, but by then it was too late, and the demon would inevitably sigh and groan and grumble as he rolled over in bed to stare at Aziraphale, a soppy sort of smile on his face.

“Morning, angel,” Crowley mumbled that one particular morning. His voice was rough, low, hoarse from sleep and disuse. “Sleep alright?”

“Just as well as always, dear,” Aziraphale replied.

(It was true—the angel never expected nightmares, never considered blankets that didn’t quite cover the tips of one’s toes, or pyjama pants that bunched up around the knees, or pillows growing flat, or anything of that nature, and as such, those things simply  _ didn’t happen _ . It was a useful trick, but one that only worked so long as Aziraphale wasn’t aware of it himself.)

Crowley smiled, a slow, leisurely thing.

It was luxurious, it was  _ decadent _ , to lie there together, without a worry or care in the whole, wide world.

Aziraphale had always enjoyed his luxuries.

Sometimes, they wouldn’t move for ages, the two of them staying in bed until the sky once again grew dark. Others, Aziraphale’s appetite would eventually rouse them, and they’d go about their morning at the same slow, unhurried pace.

The kettle would be put on, and the percolator, and the ingredients for whatever breakfast confection the pair of them desired would be found in the icebox, and soon Aziraphale would find himself sitting at his kitchen table across from the Serpent of Eden.

Aziraphale was well acquainted with miracles. He himself was made of miraculous stuff—Her Thoughts, Her Intents, Her Desire, Her Will, manifested from Nothing and Spoken into Existence. H knew too much of Heaven. There was more magic in his veins than blood.

This, however—this was more divine than anything the angel had encountered.

He sat and watched as Crowley sipped at his coffee and swiped through nonsense articles on his " _ smart phone" _ and remembered. Aziraphale remembered the way Crowley had swept him into his arms the previous night, the way they’d swayed together. Altogether clumsy, altogether graceless, altogether  _ them _ , just the two of them, spinning and laughing and holding each other close as a scratchy jazz record played.

Life had, somehow, spun itself into the most gorgeous brocade.

Aziraphale knew what they had. He could sense it, feel it in the air as Crowley’s fingers lingered against his own as the demon passed him the salt, his voice was still coarse and drowsy as he hummed along to some low, sweet, ancient tune.

He knew it, but he did not say it.

He didn’t have to.

He had everything he needed, right there.

Altogether, after the end of the world.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me your thoughts!


End file.
